


Blizzard of 78, a Hamilton Story

by Writer_From_The_Stars



Series: Hamilton, an American story [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Hope you enjoy, I don't, M/M, Sweet, Wish me luck, action! - Freeform, and historical accuracy can fight me for all i care right now, but who cares, fluff!, i suck at endings, my first one, tension!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 11:11:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10989738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_From_The_Stars/pseuds/Writer_From_The_Stars
Summary: Pro tip number 1: don't put Alexander Hamilton in a snowstorm.





	Blizzard of 78, a Hamilton Story

[Hamilton] Hey guys, anyone remember that time I nearly died? Ha, that was fun.  
[Lafayette] In the blizzard of 78’? How could I not?  
[Laurens] Yeah, we were the ones who saved your frozen butt, Alex.  
[Mulligan] Every time y’all knuckleheads tell that story, I get chills down my spine.  
[Burr] Um, could I hear this story? It sounds interesting.  
[Mulligan] *shudders* Not again…  
[Lafayette] Oh boy-  
[Laurens] -here we go...  
[Hamilton] Well, it all started when Washington told Charles Lee and I to go find some supplies…

 

“Now, Hamilton, Lee, we need to find sufficient enough supplies to hold us off for the week. You two need to go down to this farm,” General George Washington said, pointing down on a ragged map to a dot with a faded name written underneath, “and meet the family over there that will spare us some things of theirs for as long as we need it.”  
The two men he was addressing were standing ramrod straight in front of his desk. The man standing to the right of him was Washington’s right-hand man and aide-de-camp, Alexander Hamilton, a handsome writer with a thirst for fighting. Everything from his stance to his ponytail spoke of confidence, something sorely needed in these trying times. As annoying as he could be sometimes, Hamilton’s grit and bravery felt like a breath of fresh air to Washington. The same could not be said of Charles Lee.  
Blond hair longer than his attention span and a superiority complex to match, Washington sometimes questioned why he had made him a general in the first place. Maybe because Hamilton’s bravery could just as easily be recklessness, no matter what event. Such recklessness needed constant supervision, and Washington couldn't control him all the time.  
“I met with the owner yesterday and arranged it all, so you don’t need to go introduce yourselves. Just simply tell the man who you came from, and he will give you the supplies. At any sign of danger, do not engage the enemy.” staring pointedly at Hamilton as he said this, “Get your butts back here without being seen.”  
Washington then ushered them out the door and sent another soldier, a youthful boy by the nickname of Kip, to keep them from bickering with each other. Peering up at the cloudy grey night sky, he called back Hamilton suddenly.  
“Oh, Hamilton.”  
“Yes sir?” Hamilton asked, tugging on his bedraggled coat, excited to finally get to do something than write letters for once.  
“Watch out for the storm. From what I can tell, it’s going to be bad. Stay safe.”  
“Yes sir.”

 

On the way there, Charles, in another of his whiny fits from the conditions, bickered and snarked at Hamilton and the escort the whole way there. Hamilton, naturally, spat back at him. Just because he was a general doesn't mean he gets to be annoying without consequences. Hamilton was so eloquent, he could probably write a musical about how stupid Charles Lee was in the span of three days.

Finally, after trudging through dirty patches of melting snow from last week's storm and mud, they could see the house from several hills away.  
Suddenly, the hair on the back of Hamilton’s neck stood on end.  
Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.  
“Charles.” he yelled-whispered at him  
Charles continued to ignore him, walking at his usual angry-at-the-world pace. Kip followed close behind, regretting Washington’s choice of escort. Neither of them saw what Hamilton was motioning towards.  
“CHARLES.” he hissed after him, in a desperate attempt to get him to stop walking, you idiot.  
“WHAT!” he yelled at him, huffing as he turned around. Hamilton grabbed his collar and Kip’s and pointed over the hills at the house, confirming his fears.  
Several red coats walked out the front door of the farm cottage, fully armed and toting sacks full of goodies. Goodies that they weren’t supposed to have.  
“We need to go back and tell the general, right now.” Charles quavered, trying to wrench himself out of Hamilton’s grip. Hamilton still held his grip tight.  
“No. We came here to get what was promised to us, and that’s what we’re going to get.” he retaliated, launching himself up the hill and sneaking behind some trees. The escort and Charles Lee were being dragged behind him as fast as Hamilton was moving.  
“Do you want to get ourselves killed?!” Charles yelled-whispered at him, peering up worriedly at the thick flakes of snow starting to fall. The wind chill was picking up, making Lee and Hamilton shiver in their jackets, but Hamilton still pulled ahead.  
When Hamilton had a plan, it would take a man like Washington to stop him.  
Charles Lee, sadly, was not that man.

 

“I know hauling heavy bags is not an easy task, especially with Charles, but should it really take that long?” a frizzy, chestnut brown head asked from beneath a pile of blankets.  
“I was just asking the same thing, Laurens.” another head, this one with an equally frizzy black ponytail, agreed from under another pile.  
It was laundry day, and with John Laurens and Lafayette working in there, they made swift work of the dirty clothes. In reality however, Lafayette wasn't assigned to wash the clothes at all. He just wanted something to do besides freeze. So, between the both of them, the piles of clean clothes began to grow. They made do without using water at all, using home remedies brought from both South Carolina and France. Using fire-heated bricks to keep the clothes warm, they took a break. Bundled up in toasty blankets, they felt warmer, and somehow happier, than they had in weeks.

“Is this what you two have been doing the entire time?” Washington walked in to see one General Marquis de Lafayette and one aide-de-camp John Laurens wrapped from head-to-toe in sheets and blankets from the other cabins.  
Lafayette stood up successfully, the sheets falling gracefully around his polished boots. John Laurens, however, got entangled in the sheets and fell back onto the floor, much to his dismay.  
“I need you two in my office. It's a matter of urgency. Come quickly.” he said, then with a flourish of his cloak, he stepped out, with Lafayette and Laurens on his heels.  
Inside Washington’s office, Mulligan stood up at his entrance, and stood there as confused as the rest of them.  
Hercules Mulligan lived up to his name; being an Irish-bred, heavy-weight man with rippling muscles many men in the camp only dreamed of having. George Washington had yet to find something he wasn't afraid of.  
Lafayette wasn’t as dark skinned as Mulligan, nor did he have his brute strength, but intelligence made up for it. And he had aim. Lots of it.  
John Laurens wasn’t as intelligent as Lafayette or as strong as Mulligan, but he did have three things going for him.

One: he was 80% of Hamilton’s self control.  
Two: he had a big heart, maybe too big for his own good.  
Three: Hamilton, no matter what, was always by his side.  
Laurens felt like that was good enough for him.

“Hamilton and Charles Lee haven't been back in several hours, and I recently heard reports of British troops in the area. I debated whether or not I needed to risk sending more people to find them, but I have a feeling that something is wrong. Very, very wrong.”  
“Sir, if you need us to go and find them, we will.” John Laurens piped up, wringing his hands nervously, “We're the closest thing to family that Hamilton has. We can go an-”  
A commotion erupted outside the office door.  
Suddenly, Charles Lee burst in, covered in wet clothes and snow, dragging the escort soldier in. The escort had been shot in the legs several times, and was trying to keep himself from bawling in pain in front of the general. Charles Lee ungraciously dropped him on the ground and proceeded to tell Washington in between breaths what happened.

 

Charles Lee had to admit it, Hamilton was really good at stealth.   
Who knew such a loudmouth could actually walk as silently as this? he thought to himself as Hamilton began to throw rocks around; emulating footsteps, guns cocking, and even words? Whatever it was, it was working. The two British soldiers in the front of the farmhouse slung their bags onto the rickety porch and ran off in the direction Hamilton threw the rocks. After checking for more, Hamilton took the sacks, threw one to the escort, and broke off across the lawn, heading to the safety of the trees.

Big mistake.  
There was a soldier still in the house.

The soldier cried out and began to shoot out across the lawn. One bullet whizzed through Lee’s jacket collar, missing his head by several inches and naturally making him squeal like a baby. Kip had been shot in the legs three times. Hamilton saw him fall and cleared back for him in the face of a bullet storm. The two soldiers came back, very irritated and very enraged that somebody tried to steal their loot.

Hamilton threw the bags into the trees, yanked Charles Lee by the collar and Kip by the shoulder and pulled them into a different part of the woods. Trees blurred past them as the soldier’s angry yells grew closer and closer. Just when they thought it couldn't get any worse, the bottom dropped out. Snow and winds nearly tossed them around like paper dolls. After running through blindingly thick snow and tripping over tree roots, they found a fork in the road.

“Charles, I need you to go down this way with Kip. I’ve been this way before, it’s the fastest way back to camp. I can lead them away and make sure they don’t find everyone else.” Hamilton shouted, panic rising in his voice.  
“No! As much as I hate to say this, I’m not going to leave you out here! You’ll freeze before they even catch you!” Charles yelled back, the ripping wind and snow tearing his voice away.  
“Don’t worry about me! Just go!!” Hamilton yelled, pushing Charles Lee and Kip into the other path, far enough that the rapidly approaching British soldiers only saw Hamilton tearing into the other path. They never even glanced at Charles furiously sprinting back to camp, near dragging poor Kip behind him.

 

“And that’s what happened sir. I nearly died out there! I have no idea where Hamilton could be, but in this storm, it’s a million to none of anyone finding him!”  
During the retelling of what went down, John Laurens progressively got paler and paler with fear, Lafayette started bouncing around anxiously on his toes, and Mulligan began to crack his knuckles, the only nervous habit a man of his size could have.  
“I don’t care if we have the King’s Army against us sir, we need to find him.” the Marquis said, pulling on a coat and motioning for Mulligan and Laurens to follow.  
“I’m not losing anymore soldiers tonight, Lafayette, and I’m especially not losing you!” Washington commanded.  
“. . .”  
“That’s an order, General Lafayette.”  
“I’m dreadfully sorry, Your Excellency. Come on!!” he yelled as Laurens, Mulligan, and Lafayette dashed out into the raging storm together, Washington angrily screaming for them to come back dangit, you’re going to die out there.

 

Hamilton had never experienced this level of cold before. He never knew places could get this cold at all. Being born and raised in the Caribbean never gave him the added resistance his friends had. His muscles gave up a long time ago trying to shiver to keep warm. His fingers turned blue, then white, then numb. His skin stopped feeling the bite of the freezing winds, and that scared him. Everywhere we went, he heard the voices of the British soldiers in the wind long after he lost them on the path.  
That scared him even more.  
Halfway through his awful journey, he remembered his flask, the one given to him as a gift from Hercules Mulligan for his birthday. It had some of last night's brandy left in it, but sadly, good things don't last forever. Soon, his fumbling fingers dropped it accidentally in a nearby ditch. In his befuddled state of mind, he didn't think much of it. In fact, it was getting harder and harder to walk, to think, to do anything. The only thing keeping him upright was a command to himself that he kept buried deep in his heart.

Protect the nation, and protect his friends.

No, his friends were more like family to him, John Laurens being the closest of any of them. He always took care of him, no matter what was happening around them. John Laurens had his back from the day that they met. Every time he saw him, every time they talked about how stupid Lee was, every time Hamilton heard Lauren’s laugh, he got a queer feeling in his gut that he just couldn’t place. Was it love? Or was it something more?   
Laurens to him was more than friends, more than family. His friends were always at his side. But now, he was alone.

Alexander Hamilton was at the mercy of the blizzard.

After walking for five miles, he collapsed in a small clearing, surrounded by rings of snow-covered pines. With the last strength he had, he pulled himself into a tiny ball, futilely trying to save the last bit of warmth he had left. The snow under him welcomed him into their numbing arms, and the storm above helped cover up their crime, piling on layer after layer of the snowfall. His heartbeat fluttered, weak and slow, pulling him farther and farther into a dark sleep. His breathing faltered as the cold sank into his muscles, his bones, his heart.  
His last thoughts were of George Washington, his friends, and John Laurens.

 

“ALEXANDER! Alexander Hamilton!!! Please, come on, if you're near, just please say something!!” Mulligan yelled over the thickening snow storm. The blizzard was unleashing its full wrath in blasts, with spells of quiet every now and again. Less gusts of wind and less tree branches knocking together told Mulligan to keep searching.  
They had decided to search in a giant pack, spread out only as far as they could see each other. The only good lead they had found so far was a forlorn brandy flask with Hamilton’s initials on it. After searching through miles of identical-looking snowbanks and trees, they were near about to give up, Laurens and Mulligan being the only people in the group still leading the search. They were about to turn back when Laurens nearly tripped over a buried root in the ground. Lafayette managed to grab him by the collar of his coat before he fell.  
“T-thanks.” he shuddered, the freezing winds making him tremble like a leaf in autumn.  
“Why would there be roots out in this clearing? The trees are all spread apart so far from each other.” Mulligan questioned, the cold barely even fazing him.  
“We can have time to wonder about that back at camp, let's go.” Lafayette groaned, turning around back the way they came. Laurens, turning back around, kicked up the snow above the root he got his foot snagged on, and revealed it to be…  
“Pants.”  
“What?”  
“There's pants.” Mulligan said, pointing to where Lauren's foot used to be. Right where he pointed, there was a cuff to a pants leg. Connected to that was a boot, and further up the leg was covered by snow.  
John Lauren’s panic rose in volumes as he dug the snow off, revealing more and more of Alexander Hamilton.   
He was curled up in a very tight ball, with his knees pulled up to his chest. His skin was as white and cold as the snow around him. He looked like he had peacefully fallen asleep there, buried under a blanket of pristine, thick snow. They stood there in shock for a moment, then Mulligan quickly nudged Laurens aside and gently pressed on Hamilton’s neck for a pulse.

Nothing.

It didn't take Mulligan's expression for Laurens to realize that.

“No no no no no no no no Alex no Alex don't do this to me, please don't do this to me, please no, please come back, please come back, don't be dead, please don't die on me here Alexander, please come back…..please…” Laurens pleaded, trying something, anything for him to wake up. But he never did.   
Right then and there, John Laurens broke. A few tears suddenly turned into all-out sobbing as he buried his face into Alexander’s side. Lafayette stared on in horror, and Mulligan turned his head away. A long silence passed, punctured with Lauren’s sobs and the howls of wind around them, then Laurens felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. His freckled, tear-stained eyes turned up to see Mulligan's.  
“We came all this way for him. It'd be a shame to leave him here.” he said, moving around him and picking up Hamilton’s stiff body. Mulligan’s large size and broad arms made Hamilton look much smaller than he actually was. Looking back, Laurens thought Lafayette was going to cry as Mulligan lifted him out of the snow.

The way back seemed much longer than it used to be.

John almost couldn't make it back to the camp without bawling his eyes out. Halfway there, as Laurens was trudging behind Mulligan, he felt somebody's hand take his. He turned his head to see Lafayette staring at him sadly, his eyes near to the brim with tears.  
“You were close with him, weren't you?” he said quietly, still looking at him.  
“Yes…”  
“How close?”  
One look from Laurens gave him all the confirmation he needed. The rest of the way there, Lafayette had his arm wrapped around him tight.

 

As they walked into camp, the shocked looks of the soldiers outside cut holes in Lauren’s heart. But what ripped the biggest one wasn't the soldiers at all.

It was Washington.

He ran up to them, the shock on his face shifting fast to grief, pain, and, Laurens almost couldn’t believe it, denial?  
“Oh god, Alexander…” he said, taking Hamilton’s wrist and pressing down on the veins, searching almost desperately for a pulse.  
“Sir…” Mulligan said, looking him dead in the eyes and telling him where they found him. As he talked, Laurens watched as Washington’s face scrunched up, almost as if in terrible pain. His chest was heaving like he was crying, but he saw no tears stream down his face. 

Suddenly he did something that etched hard into the memory of every soldier watching that night.

Washington unclipped the dark navy cloak from his shoulders, the blood-red underside rippling in the wind, and pulled it from his shoulders. That cloak was a symbol of honor, the symbol of the immense responsibility put upon him, the pride everyone in the country felt for him. Now, without it, he looked much smaller, and looked as vulnerable as the soldiers around him. He tenderly draped the cloak over Hamilton’s body, covering his face as well as the rest of him, then he turned away and slowly walked back to his office. As the group passed his office on their way to the cabins, Laurens swore he could hear someone inside, softly and quietly crying.

Laurens didn’t want to believe he was dead. And, for the longest time, he didn’t.  
After much heated debate, they decided to keep him in Lauren’s cabin. Mulligan set him down on the bed, and stepped out to give Laurens some space. He stood there for a moment, then he knelt down beside his bed and grabbed his still-frozen hand.  
“Alex, don't do this. I know you. You wouldn't give up like this. You'd never give up like this. Please, Alex, please. I need you.”  
Here a sob hitched in his throat.  
“We all need you. Please...come back…”  
He sat there, watching, waiting, for something to tell him that he was alive. He pulled the cloak off his face and stared, almost awestruck, at Hamilton’s expression.

It was so peaceful…..

…..how?  
How?

The grief rushed back like waves on a beach as he cried again for the second time that night. He didn’t know what he was going to be able to do without him. He loved him. He truly did love him.  
But now he was alone.

 

Alexander Hamilton felt like he was dead. Of course he should be dead. He froze there in that blizzard, didn’t he?  
But, Hamilton thought, heaven shouldn’t feel like this, right? And I thought Hell was more “fire and brimstone” than “cold dark abyss?”  
The reason why he thought this was because he seemed to be floating in an endless, pitch-black expanse of nothing. Everywhere he looked was dark. And empty.  
This can't be the end. Hamilton thought. This can't be it. No, no, I won't let this be it. I have to get out. I have to get out. I have to…….wake up.

His eyelids shifted, twitched, and then finally cracked open. His vision was still blurry, so he decide to check his other faculties.

1: Skin was hurting, possibly frostbite?  
2: Breathing hurt, but at least he was breathing.  
3: Fingers were stiff, but after a while he was able to move them, albeit rather slowly.

The odd thing was, his right hand was strangely warm. Something wasn't right.  
His vision was a little clearer now, so he looked around at his surroundings. He appeared to be in John Lauren’s cabin, in his bed, to be exact. One question was solved. The next question was why his hand was warm. He shifted his head to look at his hand and saw an entire person beside him.

It was John Laurens.

After blinking several times, his eyes cleared up enough to see Lauren’s hand intertwined around his own. Laurens was slumped over at the side of his bed, a sad expression covering his face. It seemed to him that he had cried himself to sleep, the stain of tears still fresh on his freckled cheeks. Lauren’s hand was still wrapped within his own, even in his sleep.  
“John…” Hamilton whispered, weakly shaking his entwined hand in an attempt to wake him. Laurens murmured something unintelligible, then opened his eyes to see Hamilton looking over at him.  
Laurens almost couldn't believe it.

Almost.

“Alex!!” he cried as he pulled him into a tight hug.   
Hamilton didn't care if his ribs were aching and his skin was sore to the touch as Laurens pulled him in. All he cared about was that he was safe, and that he was with the one he loved. Hamilton suddenly felt Laurens brokenly sobbing into his shoulder. It hurt his heart to hear him crying like this. With his shaking hands, he tenderly pulled Lauren’s face closer to his and held it there, their foreheads pressed together. Lauren’s eyes were shining with tears of relief, and Hamilton realized after a couple of seconds that he was crying too. They stayed there, looking into each other's eyes for the longest time, when Mulligan came in, wanting to check in on Laurens.  
“Oh my- LAFAYETTE, GET IN HERE!!!” Mulligan yelled out the door, then ran up and pulled Hamilton into a bone-crushing hug.  
“Ag, Mulligan, that’s really…...really tight man, ow.” Hamilton managed to choke out as Mulligan squeezed hard enough to push his ribs together.

Lafayette stepped in with Washington right behind him, and said nothing as he stepped up beside him and flicked him on his forehead.  
“OW, WHA-”  
“If you pull something like this again, Alexander, I will kill you, then I’ll kill myself so I can keep whooping your sorry little-”  
“Good to see you too, Lafayette.”

Washington came in right after Lafayette, barely containing himself. Just a short while ago, he was bracing himself with the horrifying truth; Hamilton was gone, and he wouldn’t be coming back. But here he was!  
“I think I’ve learned a valuable lesson tonight. Never let Alexander Hamilton try to be heroic in the middle of a snowstorm.” he chuckled, rubbing his temples. Then, that night, he did something else that no one in that room would ever forget. He walked over to Hamilton and pulled him into a tight hug. And, for the first time in awhile, Hamilton prayed a silent thank you to God.  
He wasn’t alone anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> I bet somebody's done this before, but here's my take on it. This is my first work that I've put on this site. This certainly isn't the first time I've written something.  
> Hope you enjoy, and leave your thoughts in the comments below!


End file.
